


Borderline Magic

by gothssad



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BPD Mickey, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dead Terry Milkovich, Eventual Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Instability, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Probably happy ending, Psych Ward, Roommates, Superpowers, a lot of angst though, alt universe where ian and mickey dont meet when theyre young, and they were ROOMMATES, eventual mindreading, internalized ableism, lots of triggers just b careful, mickey is vulgar and sad as fuck, smut before relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothssad/pseuds/gothssad
Summary: Mickey is an emotionally unstable southside drug dealer who suddenly comes into powers he cannot control. This leads to the death of Terry, Mickey's arrest, a pro bono lawyer who somehow gets him time in a psych ward instead of prison, and bipolar roommate Ian Gallagher who happens to be the only person that believes Mickey. Mickey goes through being borderline, internalized ableism and internalized homophobia.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	1. Dead Daddy Dearest

“Mikhailo?” The interrogator asked. 

Mickey had always been a very reactive person. Since elementary school (and possibly before that), his teachers hated him, and so did all of his classmates, except the other kids who were like him, or wanted to be like him. He argued about each thing he could. Kindness was a stranger to him. He started something akin to a gang when he was eight – they sold the answers for tests (yes, third-grade multiplication tests) instead of drugs, and swore, yelled, at other kids instead of fighting them. 

The violence came later, in middle school, and when it came, it took over. Mickey started fighting everyone, for any reason. Sometimes he felt bad, mostly he just worried about losing control, because that’s what it was. Mickey felt too much. The smallest thing set him off, triggered a rage inside him larger than life. And he lost control. It wasn’t only rage, though, rage was secondary. Mickey would never admit it, but he was sensitive. Little criticisms, reminders that he isn’t perfect, reminders of his family, his upbringing, reminders that nobody really loves him, that he’s going nowhere in life: they gave him a deep, unchanging agony and fear that sent him spiralling. The anger was to cope, because it was much easier to be angry than sad. He didn’t fight as a way to threaten, or show any superiority (though that came with it), he fought to make it go away. When the gigantic waves of awful feelings came, he felt like he had to do something, he had to get it out, he had to show the world he felt it and it wouldn’t stop, he had to fight. 

Finally, in high school, as the crescendo of his school career, he punched his science teacher who’d said “just because you’re poor doesn’t mean you can be an asshole”, and was expelled. At least he gave the guy a broken nose. 

With nothing to focus on (though he hardly focused on school), at fifteen, he became a being of impulse. He would have sex with any girl he could, but it never felt right, he’d have to be drunk to do it. He tried nearly every drug he could get his hands on, pardoning heroin and meth. He started selling the drugs, too. The fights continued, but they weren’t as innocent as fists, they were guns pointed at each other, knives ready, a bat in the middle of the night. He hadn’t shot, stabbed, or beat anyone with a bat, but he thought maybe he would, if he had to. 

The strange thing, to Mickey, was that in juxtaposition to his intense emotions, he felt nothing. He felt an emptiness so enormous that nothing could fill it. Usually, emptiness is a lack of something. Emptiness to Mickey was taking everything. It was taking him. He couldn’t decide whether he felt too much or not at all. Even after the sex, the drugs, the fights, he still woke up hoping for nothing at all, or hoping for everything. Every day was monotonous but extreme. He couldn’t figure it out.

When he figured that nothing ever helped, he gave up on the impulsivity that left him feeling used, pathetic, a waste. He decided on the stability of dealing drugs. Somewhere along the line, he grew a fear of being touched. A stranger gently touching his back to get past him left him feeling nauseous. Somebody accidentally touching his hand while handing him a beer bottle made his whole body cringe. He didn’t know when it started, or why, and he didn’t really care.

Now, at twenty years old, he was a technically unemployed southside drug dealer. He’d gained the respect of the community, the neighbourhood, mostly by scaring everybody too much to disrespect him. For his whole life, he lived with his dad, Terry, and his sister, Mandy. Terry was the shit on Mickey’s shoe that stunk and would never come clean. Mandy was the warm sun after a long day. When Mickey was nineteen, Mandy ran away. She woke him up in the middle of the night to tell him she couldn’t take it anymore. She admitted to Mickey for the first time that sometimes Terry would get drunk and rape her. She was used to it, it started when she was fourteen, but she couldn’t handle it. She was going away, moving states, going off the grid. 

That was the first time Mickey had cried for a while. He’s pretty embarrassed about it, but he begged her to stay. The heartbreak he felt when he knew she was leaving was unspeakable. He begged, and cried, and said he’d kill Terry.

“It’s not enough, Mick,” Mandy said regretfully, “I need to get out of this place. Everything here is awful. You could come with me?”

He couldn’t. A few states away, Mickey would have nothing. He’d be homeless, or worse. At least Mandy graduated; Mickey was a lost cause. 

They hugged. And that was  _ something _ . That meant, for the first time, something was worth facing his fear for. They hugged for a long time, in the dark of the night, in the middle of Mickey’s messy room, but the hug would have never been long enough.

Just like that, Mickey was alone. He had his drug-dealing friends, he had his ‘clients’, he had his shitstain for a father. But he was alone. He didn’t sleep that night. He sobbed and tore at his skin and wondered if he should go find her - she couldn’t be far yet. 

He considered killing himself. Each day, he passed the guns lazily left out around the house, and he considered. Thoughts of all the horrific ways he could die were stuck in his mind. Everybody had thoughts of their own demise, but Mickey’s brought him a sense of peace, and he knew that was bad, it was dangerous, he was sick, but he didn’t care. It all hurt too much.

Everybody gets to a point where they think they’re at their worst - and it can’t possibly get any worse - and then it does. For Mickey, it got exponentially worse very quickly. He couldn’t decide whether he was going crazy or whether he’d just discovered the world wasn’t what it seemed to be. Mickey began experiencing, causing, paranormal phenomena. It began small, like when he tried to light a cigarette, but his lighter wasn’t working, and he was getting frustrated, and suddenly the cigarette was lit. Next, he hadn’t eaten for twelve hours because of a mix-up with his dealings, and the microwave started without him having to press a button. There were also the whispers, at night, and he seriously wondered if he was schizophrenic, because it was like he could hear and know things that nobody else could. It became more dangerous, when he’d gotten angry with a client, their knees would spontaneously and painfully fail underneath them. After an argument with Terry, he’d lit their curtains on fire, in the middle of winter, with their heater broken, and the windows covered in thin layers of ice. He started dreaming, every night, about being in between two realms. The ‘normal one’, earth, and another, full of ghosts and dead people and ethereal beings. It did all stop for a while, and for a while, he tried to forget about it. He decided to believe it was a fluke in the universe. It hadn’t stopped. It had just settled, right under the surface, waiting for an explosion. 

There was a warning the night before. Mickey had a bad day, and came home to his drunk father, who decided he wanted to fight. Mickey took a blow to the face before the living room television screen shattered and sparked. The next day, when Terry wanted to finish the fight, it broke Mickey. All of his rage, all of it since Mandy had left, came out at that moment. And Terry was thrown out the window. Not by Mickey’s hands, not by anyone else’s, but by Mickey’s powers that he could no longer ignore. He just wanted it all to stop, and now his father was dead in broad daylight, and everybody on the sidewalk had seen, and the police were being called, and Mickey, the typical southside thug-looking motherfucker, was being put in handcuffs that were too tight and was being roughly shoved into a cop car, not knowing how the fuck he was gonna get out of this one. 

“Mikhailo?” The interrogator persisted. He was a 50-something man with greyish-brown hair and stubble that hadn’t been shaved in four days. He had thick, round glasses and a weak jawline. He was short, shorter than Mickey, which was a feat. He wasn’t fit, really, but he wasn’t large either. He looked kind, or he would, if he wasn’t trying and failing to intimidate Mickey. On the interrogator’s police uniform was a pin that read “Daniel”. 

“It’s Mickey,” Mickey corrected sternly, his jaw clenched. “What?” 

The interrogation room was small, polished, and plain. The shiny metal table, which matched the floor, walls and ceiling, reflected the buzzing fluorescent lights. “ _ What _ ?” Daniel chuckled, dumbfounded by Mickey acting clueless. “Terry Milkovich has been thrown out a second-floor window, Mickey, and you were the only one in the house.” 

Mickey acted angry, bitter, towards the interrogator, but really his heart was painfully beating out of his chest, because he knew he was fucked. “Yep.” 

Daniel sighed, rubbing his forehead, looking stressed. “Do you want to say anything?” 

Now, Mickey did not know anything about the law or how to get out of the situation he’d gotten himself into. He knew about the laws he broke every day, and he knew that if the man in front of him knew about those he’d be spending life in prison. The other thing he knew was something he’d learnt to do if he wanted a sliver of a chance. “I wanna talk to a lawyer.” 

The interrogator nodded, looking somewhat disappointed. “As is your right.” 

Then, Daniel grabbed his black coffee in his white cardboard cup and his clipboard full of papers, and made his way out of the room. As the heavy metal door closed behind him, Mickey sighed of relief, and the room filled with a piercing silence. He looked around the room for a camera, in case there was some chance he could escape, and there it was, in the corner of the room, pointed right at him. He smiled at it sarcastically, wondering if there was somebody in a security box who got a chuckle out of it. 

He waited in that room for half an hour, with his ass starting to get sore from the cheap plastic chair and his bare arms starting to get cold. 

Then, two buff-looking guards came bustling in, one with a buzz cut and the other with short blonde hair.

“Come on,” the buzz cut said, taking a key out of his blue, police pants pocket and unlocking one of Mickey’s cuffs, removing it from the table, and putting it back on Mickey’s wrist. It wasn’t as tight as before, which was nice. “Your attorney, appointed by the state, is coming tomorrow. You’ll be sleeping in a cell here for the night.” 

Mickey didn’t say anything as the two men each grabbed an arm and tugged him away. The hall of cells was dark and empty, very different from juvie, in which he spent a month after punching his teacher. Juvie was full, chaotic and loud, but there was nobody else in these cells. Mickey was the only one there. They took him to the last cell, and through the small hole in the door, removed his cuffs. 

It was small, of course. There was a single bed with a weak mattress, a somewhat itchy blanket and a cheap pillow. There was a steel toilet and sink to match. There were carvings in the wall of various symbols, some he recognized, some he didn’t. That was it. It was a very plain thing, but Mickey was too anxious to be bored. He laid down, under the itchy blanket to keep himself warm, and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t really want to sleep, because that would mean tomorrow would come sooner, and so would the rest of his life, and he doubted he’d have a moment to relax like he was now. Sleep comes when it wants, though, especially when you have nothing to entertain your mind, and he fell asleep, dreaming of the realms he didn’t understand. 

Early the next morning, Mickey was given breakfast in the form of a bun, a small slab of pork with cold gravy, and lukewarm boiled carrots. Mickey was poor, yeah, but he was also a picky eater, so he ate his breakfast with disdain. (Not that anyone likes breakfast for criminals). Soon after, he was taken by buzz cut and blondie back to the interrogation room and told that his attorney would be arriving. 

After another half hour, a man in a suit with a briefcase came in. He had damp light brown hair, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and a blotchy red face. He looked kind, though. The pin on his tie (who puts their name tag on their tie?) read “Nick”. He sat down and hastily searched his pockets, eventually taking out an inhaler and taking four little puffs. 

Mickey looked around the room as if wondering if he was the only one seeing this. “You just run a marathon?” 

Nick’s breathing finally steadied. He chuckled at Mickey’s joke. “I walked here. For the environment.” 

“Why the hell would you do that?” Mickey asked judgmentally, taking in the sight in front of him. 

“Mikhailo,” Nick began, “I’m the only one on your side here. I’d suggest not insulting what I do with my time.” 

“ _ Mickey _ . It’s Mickey.” Mickey 

“Okay,” Nick agreed with a nod, “Mickey.” 

Mickey was taken aback by the compliance. “Thanks.” 

“Now,” Nick opened his briefcase and took out multiple papers, pens and pencils. “I’m going to need you to explain what happened, in your own words. They know you did it, of course, but maybe something could help your case…” He didn’t sound very hopeful. “Can you tell me what led up to the incident?” 

Mickey felt sick trying to remember. He didn’t want to think about what it was all about, but he figured he had to. “We were arguing.”

Nick scribbled that down. “About?” 

Mickey gulped. “Well, it started the night before…” 

_ It was an awful day. A new client had outsmarted Mickey and stole $300 worth of drugs, which he’d have to pay out of his pocket to the higher-ups. He got home late, and was expecting to go to his room and read comics, or jerk off, or smoke, or just rest. Instead, he was confronted by a drunken Terry the moment he opened the door. It smelt like he’d been soaked in rum. Terry had always been an angry, horrible drunk. Mickey had learnt to ignore Terry when he was like that, but Terry decided to hit where it hurt that night.  _

_ “Why are you still here, Mickey?” Terry slurred and took another sip from the bottle. It was a taunt.  _

_ “Fuck off,” Mickey said and started going up the stairs.  _

_ “Why didn’t you go with Mandy? Fucking backstabbing cunt,” Terry mumbled.  _

_ Immediately, Mickey saw red. He turned, stomped to Terry, and faced him eye-to-eye. “You don’t get to fucking talk about her, you sick, deluded fuck,” Mickey spat, his teeth clenched.  _

_ Terry could barely keep his eyes open, he was so drunk, but he still managed to swing fast enough to hit Mickey, who fell back onto the floor. There was a loud shatter, which startled both Terry and Mickey, who saw that the TV was no longer making the quiet sounds of whatever channel it was on, and was instead black and broken.  _

_ “Fuck,” Terry laughed. “You do that?” He joked.  _

_ Mickey thought the same thing, ‘fuck’, for an entirely different reason.  _

_ The fight, for the night, was over after that. Mickey went to his room and locked the door. He hoped that was it. _

_ The next day was Mickey’s self-proclaimed day off, which meant he slept quite a bit. By one PM, he was still asleep, and was awoken suddenly by a bang at his locked door.  _

_ He could smell the waft of alcohol from under the door, through the cracks. _

_ “Mickey!” Terry shouted, clearly drunk again. “Let me in!”  _

_ Mickey, tiredly and naively, opened the door, thinking Terry was just going to pull his usual shit.  _

_ “What do you want, asshole?” Mickey went and sat back on his bed, not looking at his dad. Terry chuckled.  _

_ “It’s your fault she left, you know,” Terry taunted.  _

_ Mickey turned and glared. “You don’t wanna start this again, pops.”  _

_ “If you weren’t such a pussy–” _

_ Mickey’s whole body felt hot. Control had slipped away, he was so angry. “If you weren’t such a fucking rapist,” Mickey shouted, loud enough for the whole street to hear, “She’d still be here! If you weren’t such a disgusting piece of shit, she’d still fucking–” _

_ His yelling was interrupted by the sound of glass breaking and drywall exploding. He opened his eyes to a hole in his window that spread to the wall. Terry was no longer in the room.  _

_ Stunned, Mickey shakily stood up and approached the former window. He looked down, through the sharp remains, and saw his father on the ground, unmoving, blood flowing from his head. Admittedly, he was kind of relieved, but that was buried under the fear and guilt that trampled him.  _

_ This is the fucking end, Mickey thought.  _


	2. Judge, jury and mental patient.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey figures out how to deal with his court case!

Of course, Mickey didn’t reveal everything to his lawyer. He kept out the drug deals. But he kept in the TV shattering out of nowhere, and how he Nick was baffled, staring at Mickey with his mouth hung open. 

“You mean you… threw him, right?” Nick asked, trying to clarify, thinking he couldn’t have possibly heard Mickey right. 

Mickey pursed his lips. He did throw Terry, but not in the usual sense. “Kinda.” 

“ _ Kinda _ ?” Nick looked stressed and confused. “Did you throw Terry Milkovich or not?” 

“I did,” Mickey admitted quietly, and Nick sat back, relieved. “With my mind.” 

Nick blinked for a few seconds, and then scrunched his eyebrows in disbelief. “You’re fucking with me.” 

Mickey stared down at the table. He was embarrassed admitting that to anybody, he felt like a child claiming there was a monster under the bed. “I’m not,” he said genuinely, still quiet. 

“Mickey,” Nick began, sympathetically, and yet disconcerted that he was explaining this to a grown man, “You do not have superpowers. They do not exist.” 

“I fucking  _ know _ !” Mickey snapped, his anger rising and falling, “I don’t know why it happens! It just does!” 

Nick was speechless, but the way he looked at Mickey showed that he didn’t believe him. “Why did you throw your dad out the window, Mickey?” He asked gently. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Mickey said, “I was just… mad. I wanted him to shut the fuck up. And the next thing I knew, the window was broken and he was on the ground in front of our house.” 

“Show me,” Nick shrugged, deciding to humour Mickey.

Mickey’s eyes flicked up to look at Nick. “Huh?” 

“Show me,” Nick persisted. He moved his coffee cup across the table, in front of Mickey. “Move the cup.” 

Mickey’s first thought was that it wouldn’t work. He’d never been able to do anything on purpose, it all came out when he was feeling too much. And yeah, he was feeling a strange mixture of emotions at that moment, but it wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t too much. Still, after taking a moment of hesitation, he stared at the cup, willing it to move with every inch of him. His entire face scrunched up as he stared at the light brown coffee, wishing it could do  _ anything _ . His head began to hurt, and the more he focused, the more it pounded, until he was hearing buzzing and feeling a warm liquid come from his nose. 

“Oh, jeez, stop, Mr. Milkovich,” Nick said, his face cringing and reaching into his bag for a tissue. “I’m sorry I asked you to do that. It’s stressed you out, evidently.”

Mickey stopped and bitterly looked at the coffee. That was his one chance. He could throw his dad out a window, but he couldn’t move a fucking cup of coffee. He tore the tissue from Nick’s hand and wiped his nose. Bright red. That hadn’t happened before. “I’m fine,” Mickey grumbled.

“Right,” Nick said, still clearly concerned. “Insanity plea it is then. Acute insanity plea. You’ll need an MHA.” 

Mickey’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Insan–  _ excuse me?!  _ I’m not fucking crazy!” He said that, and he meant it, but he wondered if he believed it. He was telling his lawyer that he threw his father out the window with his mind. It was a million times more likely that he’d imagined the whole thing. Had he?

“Calm down,” Nick insisted, and looked entirely unbothered by the situation, “This is a good thing!” Nick smiled excitedly. Mickey’s eyes were wide in confusion. “I thought this was an open and shut case, but my dear, Mr. Milkovich, you blew it wide open. You actually have a chance.” 

“What, I didn’t have a chance before?” 

Nick sat back as if he were relaxing after a long day. He let out a snort. “Not really. You were going to prison for second degree, at least. Now though, you could go to a mental health facility of some kind, prove you’re all fixed up and you won’t do it again, and bam, you’ll be free. And I’ll have my fourth successful case. That is, if, of course, you fail the mental health assessment.” 

“ _ Fourth _ ?” Mickey asked, now concerned that his lawyer might be shit, “Out of how many?” 

“Fifty two,” Nick answered quickly. “But my success rate will rise from you, Mr. Milkovich.” He smiled at Mickey as if to thank him and began cleaning up all of his supplies. He shoved everything into the briefcase messily.

_ The least he could do is let me know he’s the worst lawyer on earth,  _ Mickey thought.  _ And that I’m absolutely fucked.  _




After a gross microwave dinner and another cold night in a cell, Mickey was put into a room that was easier to deal with. It had windows (though they were covered in bars), paintings of landscapes, chairs with cushions. The room itself was a light blue with beige carpeting. Without the concrete and metal, it was quite a bit less daunting to be handcuffed to a table. He was sat at one end of a long, wooden table, with an empty chair at the other end. He’d been there for about an hour, but there was no clock, so he didn’t really know. 

The silver door knob made a sound of unlocking, and the door opened. Out came a woman with frizzy brown hair put into a bun and a grey pantsuit. As she came closer, Mickey saw that her eyes were the same colour as her clothes. She had a few wrinkles, on her forehead and cheeks, from concentration. She grinned at him politely and sat at the opposite side of the table. 

“Mr. Milkovich, yes?” She opened her salmon-coloured binder and her eyes trailed along the first page. 

Mickey cleared his throat, “Yeah.” 

She nodded and grinned again, “I’m Dr. Nicole. Your attorney briefed me a bit about your situation, but I’d like to hear it from you. When did these thoughts of having, um – what shall we say?” 

“Powers, I guess,” Mickey said blankly. He felt silly explaining it again to somebody who surely wouldn’t believe him. 

“Powers,” she repeated in agreement, “I’d like to ask about your thoughts on the powers, and a few other things, if that’s okay with you.”

Mickey took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. He knew it was his best shot. His only shot.

“We’ll begin then,” she looked down at her paper, and then back up at Mickey. “When did thoughts around these powers begin?”

Mickey thought, going back to when the first occurrence was. “Six months ago, I guess, when I was all frustrated and my cigarette… lit on its own.” 

She wrote that down. “How did you feel? Powerful, scared?” 

Mickey shrugged. He didn’t really think much of it. “I thought it was weird as fuck, but I had other shit to worry about.” 

“What else have you seen happen on its own?” She asked. 

Mickey easily remembered. “The microwave starting, uh, guys being knocked down without me touching ‘em, things flying across the room, the house shaking, and the TV and uh… then my dad.” 

She wrote that down too. “Do you ever see people that others don’t seem to see?” 

Mickey was taken off guard and snorted, as if that was the most ridiculous thing she could ask. “God, no.” 

She looked up at him, curious. “What about voices?” 

“No–” Mickey said immediately, but then memories of the whispers came through, “Yeah. At night. I don’t know.”

“When you hear them, are they in your head or outside your head?” 

Mickey tried to put himself into the times he heard them. They whispered, but they were somehow loud, overwhelming. “I don’t fuckin’ know, both? They’re everywhere.” 

“Do they say anything in particular?” 

“They say that I’m… ‘powerful’,” he said mockingly, “Destined for great things,” he was embarrassed again. “It’s shit like that.” 

“Do you believe them?” She asked, writing down everything as if her life depended on it.

“No,” he said simply, “They’re just voices. Nothing fuckin’... believable about ‘em.” 

“But you believe you have powers?” She asked for him to clarify. 

“Fuck,” he said, rubbing his eyes, wishing for it to be over, so he wouldn’t have to explain to a criminal psychologist that he does, actually, believe he has powers, and that they killed his dad, “Yes. I do.” 

“To you, what’s the difference between being powerful and having powers?” This seemed like a question that didn’t need to be asked for medical reasons. 

“Dude,” Mickey began, defensively, like it was obvious, “When you grow up southside, you know you have no fucking power, even if you can blow shit up with your mind. I’ll never be fuckin’ powerful. I’m just getting by, or I was,”  _ until now _ . He swallowed, guilt in the back of his mind for snapping at the innocent woman who seemed, by all accounts, to be wanting to help him. 

She pursed her lips sympathetically, “I’m sorry, Mr. Milkovich. I meant no offence.” 

“It’s fine,” he brushed off, more guilt growing from having her apologize, “Next question please.” 

“Okay,” She flipped a page over and began on the next, “How are your feelings?” 

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Huh?” 

She looked at him, “Are you happy? Did you feel fulfilled with your life before you were arrested?” 

“I don’t know,” he studied at his hands, if only to have something to look at besides the psychiatrist’s stray hairs and genuine eyes.  _ FUCK U-UP. _ “Sometimes, I guess, but again, mostly I just got by. I didn’t have the luxury of asking myself if life was fucking… ‘fulfilling’... It did feel pretty fuckin’ empty,” he admitted finally. 

“How many feelings would you say you go through in a day?”

Mickey laughed at that. “All of ‘em.” 

“How often do they change? How quickly?”

“Depends, I guess,” he thought about it for a moment, “Like, if a day is good I’ll be good all day. But I can be buddy-buddy with a dude, and then if he says some shit, I can deck him. A switch just flips, and I’m mad.” 

“You would say situationally you are sensitive, then?” Dr. Nicole inquired.

That word set him off. “No, fuck no, I’m not ‘sensitive’,” he said defensively, suddenly feeling scrutinized.

“There’s nothing wrong with being sensitive, Mr. Milkovich,” she told him. Mickey ignored that and tried his best to look like he wasn’t listening. “Let’s say reactive, then, when you believe a situation calls for it, your emotions shift quickly?”

She was spot on with that. “Sure,” he agreed, disgruntled. 

“Do you find you are an anxious person? On edge?”

Mickey had never really felt safe. Each day was a possible death sentence, he was under constant threats of his clients, higher-ups, his father. The law. “Yeah,” he huffed, “You would be too.”

She frowned sympathetically. “I’m sure I would,” she moved along, “Do you know of any phobias you may have?”

He hesitated answering that one. That was one of the few things that brought him continuous, genuine dread. “I don’t like being touched, I guess.” 

For the first time the entire session, Dr. Nicole was visibly puzzled. “You get in fights, though, how does that work?”

If Mickey was honest, he hadn’t even thought about that. The touch of violence wasn’t the same. “It’s different,” he explained weakly, not so sure himself, “Like, a fight is different than someone just touching you to get by you, or touching your shoulder when you’re talking. Maybe it depends on what they mean by it, I dunno.”

She blinked, and quickly wrote that down, “That’s interesting,” she said more to herself than anybody else.

Mickey raised his eyebrows in disdain, he didn’t like feeling like his psychological shit was interesting. In some ways, he wanted to be normal, normal as he can be for somebody raised like he was. “Thanks…” 

There was a pause in the room as Dr. Nicole flipped a few more papers, writing on them, checking off boxes. Mickey could feel their time was coming to an end, and he looked around, sucking up his surroundings, knowing it was the last time he’d be in a semi-comfortable room for a while. He felt the warm carpet under his feet, much different from the cold concrete of his cell. The heating worked. The chair had more cushion than his prison-grade mattress. 

“I have one last important question,” Dr. Nicole interrupted Mickey’s thoughts, “So I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to explain again, to me, briefly, what happened before the incident?”

Mickey groaned and rolled his eyes. It drained him to talk about it the first time. If he could, he’d erase his memory and start anew.

“I understand if it’s difficult to talk about, but I promise it will be important for your defense. Tell me how you felt that day, specifically, and in the moments leading up to the incident,” Dr. Nicole was insisting, not only with her words, but with the expression on her face that said ‘this is the key to everything’. 

Mickey exhaled, and decided that he would give it a shot. “I was asleep, until he came in, but before I went to bed we were arguing, he hit me. The TV screen cracked. I went to bed pissed - hah, more than pissed. When I woke up, I was still pissed, and then he came in,” his chest tightened, “And he started blaming me for Mandy leaving. And I couldn’t fucking take that, because he fucking raped her, since she was fourteen fucking years old, and he was blaming  _ me _ . I didn’t mean to kill him or throw him out any fuckin’ window. I was just shouting, wishing he would shut up, and he was gone, dead.”

Tears were pricking Mickey’s eyes, and he looked up at the bright fluorescent lights in hopes that it could burn them away. He hated to cry, especially in front of other people. He hated the knot in his throat and twist in his stomach.

“Thank you, Mickey,” she said quietly, and then all he could hear was scribbles. 




Nick explained to Mickey in detail what the insanity defense is and how Dr. Nicole diagnosing him – which she had – would be a tremendous help. It took little thought. Though there was great risk in a trial, especially because Mickey was offered a deal for a lesser sentence if he admitted his guilt, Mickey was sure he wanted to go with Nick’s plan. The memory of juvie, knowing Terry’s friends were in prison, and the prison food, was enough to get him to try anything to stay out. A mental institution wasn’t ideal, but he’d appreciate a nurse instead of a guard, a treatment plan instead of a sentence. 

First, Mickey had to plead not guilty, which baffled the judge. Next, Nick and Mickey had to make a case. There would be a couple witnesses, one of them being Terry’s friend, and they had to prepare for that. They had to decide how much to spill about Terry’s awful track record, how much would make it seem fake (because how could somebody really be that awful, and get away with it?). Then, Mickey would have to wait for his court date to come along, and in the meantime, as he had no money for bail, spend every day and night in the same three-by-three foot cage, alone. He lost time there. He tried to keep track by the light through the tiny window, but he lost count, or stopped trying. 

It took about two months, and finally Nick came to see him, to tell him his court date was the next day. Mickey felt a myriad of emotions. He was nervous because he didn’t have much hope in Nick. He was glad just to be going somewhere else, somewhere with people, wherever that would be. At the same time, he felt numb to it, maybe it was seeing the same concrete walls all day every day, or not really talking to anybody, but he didn’t feel completely real. It didn’t really hit him that the next day, he’d be given the rest of his life. 

The courtroom was emptier than he’d expected. He plead guilty in his juvie case, so he’d never seen a trial in real life. They were always bustling, full of people on TV. 

“It will be okay, Mr. Milkovich,” Nick tried to tell him. Mickey gave a short, unbelieving smile. 

One witness was just a woman who happened to be walking by and saw Terry falling out the window. She explained that it looked like he had been thrown, somebody could not have jumped by the way he well. 

The next was their neighbour, who had done a lot of business with Terry. He was drinking beer in his lawn, in a fold-out chair, when he saw Terry fall. He was a scraggly, skinny guy, who’d been visibly recently addicted to something, who was shaking if from withdrawal or rage. He went on about how great Terry was, about how kids just don’t respect their parents anymore. About how Mickey had never been grateful for being the son of ‘a man of the community’, about how he hoped Mickey would be given the chair. 

Finally, Mickey, Nick and Dr. Nicole were given the chance for Mickey’s defense. Mickey repeated the entirety of what happened, how he felt, powers and all. Nick explained to the judge and jury that Mickey is not guilty by reason of insanity. He explained that Mickey suffers from acute and periodic psychotic episodes, as Dr. Nicole has determined. Dr. Nicole was then asked to speak. 

“It is in my professional opinion,” she began, looking around the courtroom respectfully, “That defendant Mikhailo Milkovich, at the time of the incident, suffered a psychotic break that lead him to have no control over his actions. During my examination of defendant Milkovich’s mental state, I have determined that he suffers from psychotic episodes that include hallucinations and delusions of having a type of ‘superpower’. He has had the hallucination and delusion for months before the incident, which primarily appeared in times of great stress, a known and common trigger of psychosis. During the incident, he saw and believes that he inadvertently threw victim Terry Milkovich out of the window  _ with his mind _ . He has had other similar experiences, believing he lit a cigarette with his mind, broke a television with his mind, and knocked out men who have angered him with his mind. During a meeting with his attorney, he even attempted to prove himself by moving a coffee cup. He stressed himself out to the point where his nose began to bleed. The attempt was to no fruition of course, but that shows to me that the defendant is under the complete delusion that he has mind powers. It is for this reason that I have diagnosed him with psychosis that appears in episodes, as well as possible borderline personality disorder and haphephobia. The defendant would need to be studied further in order to determine the root of the psychosis, and whether the borderline personality is that or another condition. It is in my professional opinion that the defendant would not do well in a prison environment and it would likely exacerbate his symptoms, making him entirely dysfunctional. Instead, what would be best for him is a strict mental health treatment plan in a psychiatric ward.” 

To add on, Nick explained the severity of tenseness in the Milkovich household. He explained the childhood abuse, the constant violence and trauma. The only proof was a call by a walker-by who’d heard a ‘domestic dispute’, ten years ago. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

With that, there was an agonizing hour break in which the judge and jury would decide Mickey’s guilt and sentence. Mickey considered breaking out, getting away, because everything in his mind was telling him he was going to get 25-to-life. Instead, he waited. 

And somehow, miraculously, he was granted not guilty by reason of insanity. He was to be sent to a psychiatric ward for a year, and at the end of the year, his condition would be evaluated again. He wasn’t exactly free, he thought, but fuck, he wasn’t exactly imprisoned, either. 


	3. I Don't Wanna Talk About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey begins his life at the psych ward, meeting Ian, and listening to what others face.

The psych ward was immediately a thousand times more comfortable than Mickey’s jail cell. The heater worked, for one. The floor was cushiony instead of made of concrete, the walls were calming pastel colours. He was put in an isolated room at first, as he had come in the middle of the night, and they didn’t want to disturb any other patients by rooming him with them before he’d met any of them. 

In the morning was meeting the director, breakfast, group, and then one-on-one therapy, and then free time, where he’d be set up with a roommate. 

The director’s office was agreeable, but purely professional. Bookcases full of psychology books, with titles of every mental illness under the sun. Multiple locked file cabinets. Her desk had an expensive laptop, books and papers, a photo of what Mickey assumed was her family. She was a blonde woman, with her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her facial features fierce, wearing a tight, boring pantsuit.

“Mikhailo Milkovich,” she smiled, but she seemed peeved, “Sit, sit,” she gestured to the seat in front of her desk. “Is it Mikhailo, or do you prefer something else?” It seemed like a polite question, but to her, it was asked as a protocol.

Mickey looked around the room nervously. “Mickey,” he told her hesitantly, and sat down, still reading the names on all the books.

“Welcome, Mickey,” she smiled again, “I wanted to speak to you personally about the rules here. I don’t expect you to be violent because you are here on a court order–” she began, and looked Mickey up and down critically, her eyes pausing on his tattoos. He raised his eyebrows in response. “But I wanted to warn you that if there is any violence, on your part, I will need to notify the state and they will change your sentence here as they see fit.” 

“Uh-huh,” was all he said. It was clear she did, in fact, expect him to be violent. She wouldn’t be wrong, but it’s not like she knew that. He wanted to retort with something more colourful, but he decided against making enemies with the director on the first day. 

“If you understand that, you’re free to go to breakfast,” her face strained into another smile. 

“Right,” he nodded, awkwardly got up and left.

Breakfast was a choice of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast and cereal, with a drink choice of coffee, tea, orange juice and milk. Mickey got coffee (black), eggs, and froot loops. The froot loops were in a small cardboard box. 

The cafeteria was a smaller and kinder imitation of the cafeteria Mickey remembered from middle school. It was less chaotic, much less loud, and the food was much healthier. The fake wood tables were each rounded off for safety, the tile floor still somewhat springy. The high, pale green ceiling was full of windows. There were pale green walls to match, with large windows that had metal bars along them, but these bars were painted baby pink to seem less imposing. Mickey wondered if they had to put the bars on because somebody had broken a locked window trying to get out. 

Mickey sat alone, which a couple others did, but there was chatter from the populated tables. People had made friends there. They were laughing, even. Mickey, from his table, pouring his cereal, watched the louder ones judgmentally. He was feeling on edge, miserable, angry, and he didn’t want to be in a room where people were enjoying themselves. 

He felt like he stuck out, too, because almost everyone else was wearing their own clothes. They were all soft clothes that were allowed into the ward, yeah, but they were still normal-looking clothes, while Mickey’s personal clothes were deemed dangerous. He couldn’t go and grab any other ones, unlike the other patients, and so he was given the ward’s ‘perfect outfit’. He was put in a soft, thin, stretchy gray t-shirt, a wool dark brown cardigan, gray sweatpants without a waistband, squishy beige rubber sandals, and long white socks that he’d rolled down. He was immeasurably comfortable, but he hated the cozy, unfashionable artist-prodigy look. 

The other patients did look at him, from time to time, during breakfast. It was out of curiosity, nothing antagonistic, but every time he caught one of them looking, he felt more on edge, his hands turning into fists. One patient saw, and clearly took it as a threat, their face immediately going white and turning away, which Mickey felt a bit guilty about, but he also found it  _ kinda  _ funny. Mickey’s hands turning to fists was an almost instinctual thing. It was how he woke up, how he responded to anything scaring him, how he responded to anger. He forgot he did it, most of the time. 

A nurse, who seemed a bit jumpy around Mickey, showed him to the room where he’d attend his group sessions. They were sessions primarily for long term patients. 

The first thing Mickey noticed was a thin stream of smoke – steam? And the subtle smell of roses. He followed the trail to find a fake flower that blew out the fragrance, an infuser. The therapist leading the group, who was sitting in a circle with the patients, took notice. 

“Mickey, right?” She said peppily. “Sorry, are you allergic? I can shut it off if you need,” she offered. All of the other patients involved in the group seemed to be there, seven others it looked like, all looking at Mickey with interested eyes. 

“No, I’m not, it’s fine,” Mickey said, glancing around uncomfortably. 

She grinned. “Come join us,” she gestured to the only free chair. 

The room was tight, but in a cozy way. There was a blanket hung up on one wall that depicted a sunset, a painting on another of a waterfall. The carpet was lilac-coloured and soft. 

Mickey’s seat was between a thin man with greasy-looking longish hair, who hadn’t stopped biting his nails since Mickey came in, and a tired-looking brunette woman. Mickey’s eyes widened in surprise as directly across from him, he recognized somebody. A buff, tall redhead, covered in light freckles. 

_ Where have I seen him before? _ Mickey asked himself.  _ He worked at uh… a convenience store, right? And then– oh. He’s south side. That makes sense. Ian! That’s his name, Ian. Gard– no. Gail– no. Gallagher! Ian Gallagher. Fucking Gallaghers, of course he’s in here.  _

Ian hadn’t noticed him, though. He was speaking happily with the girl beside him, a pale girl with short, choppy black hair, piercings of every kind, chipped black nail polish. Mickey noticed the purple, identical scars on her arms, and quickly looked away, feeling he was invading something he had no business looking at. 

“Okay, everybody, quiet down, we have a new member to welcome,” the therapist spoke. Her name tag read  _ Rose _ . Mickey quietly snorted at that. She was a short woman with warm beige skin, curly, long brown hair, and for once, not wearing a goddamn pantsuit, but instead pale blue ripped jeans and– she was pregnant. At least, Mickey hoped she was pregnant and he hadn’t just assumed that because of the shape of her stomach. “This is Mickey.” 

“Hi, Mickey,” everybody said in unison. 

Mickey nodded awkwardly and raised his hand weakly as a greeting to the group. 

“Why don’t we go around the circle and introduce yourselves, and tell Mickey why you’re here, if you’re comfortable, just to get him situated in the group. You can pass if you need,” Rose said, and turned exactly to her left, where there was a curly-haired man listening intently. 

He turned to Mickey, who was taken aback by the sudden eye contact. He stood, “I’m Jared, and I’ve got pretty bad anger issues,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly and sat.

Next to Jared was the goth girl. “I’m Taylor, and I’ve got borderline personality disorder, I’m here because I tried to kill myself,” she said to Mickey, but faced no one in particular. 

Mickey tried not to show the shock in his face with how blunt Taylor had put it. 

Ian, really looking at him for the first time, narrowed his eyes and tilted his head at Mickey, as if to determine something. “I’m Ian, and I’m here because I had a bipolar manic psychotic episode,” he said distractedly, still wondering about something else entirely. Mickey narrowed his eyebrows at Ian, feeling watched. Finally, Ian’s face softened in realization, and he looked at Mickey as if he was impressed. 

On the other side of Ian was a thin, black woman with a strong jaw. Her natural, large brown hair had dyed red streaks through it. “I’m Nadine, and I’m here because I had a mental break and tried to kill myself, because my community doesn’t recognize me as a woman.” 

Mickey was visibly confused by that; Nadine looked and sounded perfectly like a woman. 

“You look great, Nadine,” Ian reminded her quietly, just loud enough for Mickey to hear. Nadine smiled half-heartedly. 

Next to Nadine was the man with greasy hair, who moved shakily. “I’m Bryan, I’m here because I’ve got drug-induced psychosis,” he muttered to the floor. 

And finally, the brunette woman next to Mickey, who was still looking the same. “I’m Sarah, and I’m here because I’ve got chronic depression.” 

“Thank you, everybody,” Rose said to the group with a proud smile. Her warm brown eyes then set on Mickey. “Do you want to tell the group why  _ you’re  _ here, Mickey?” 

He really didn’t. He’d explained it too many times already. He was humiliated and angry that nobody believed him. He didn’t want to explain to a group of people he deemed crazies why he was one of them. “Court order,” was all he said, and he said it in a way that told the room he wasn’t explaining further. 

Rose looked sympathetic, but she wanted to insist. “Could you go into any further detail about why the court would put you here?” 

Mickey raised his eyebrows, frustrated, because he  _ really _ wanted to be left alone. “They think I’m crazy.” 

“Me too, buddy,” Bryan chuckled, and put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder friendlily. 

Mickey’s skin immediately crawled, prickled. His stomach turned with nausea. He shook Bryan’s hand off of his shoulder violently. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

“Oh, sorry,” Bryan said sincerely and gently recoiled. 

Mickey adjusted the collar of his shirt, feeling claustrophobic and self-conscious.

“Nobody here is  _ crazy _ ,” Rose explained, “Everybody here just has things they deal with. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“I don’t fuckin’ belong here,” Mickey muttered, taking glances at the people around him, thinking he doesn’t fit in at all. 

Rose didn’t quite know what to say to that. “If you don’t want to talk, can you listen to the rest of the group?” She asked Mickey, trying to pacify him, “Maybe their experiences could help you with your own.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey brushed off and slumped down in his seat, preparing to tune out the rest of the meeting. He knew he was being rude, but Rose seemed entirely unbothered. She’d probably learned not to take things personally. Mickey figured he had no choice but to sit and listen, which, really, he didn’t. The smell of roses was starting to piss him off. He wished he was allergic. 

Rose turned to Ian, who Mickey hadn’t noticed was watching him with a slightly amused look on his face. “Why don’t you speak first, Ian? You’re always very talkative.” 

“Oh, sure!” Ian smiled excitedly, “Umm, well, I get out at the end of this week–”

The entire group, besides Mickey, interrupted Ian with cheering and clapping. 

“Yes, yes, I’m proud too,” he bowed humbly. “So I guess I’m excited for that, and I’m doing my best to keep on track so I don’t have to stay here any longer. No offense, Rose.” 

Rose waved it away, “None taken.” 

Ian’s smile faltered as he reflected more on it. “There is something, though, that’s been getting around in my brain. You know,” he told the room, “I’m always going to be sick. You know, bipolar is a lifetime thing, and sometimes I wonder what the point is of getting better if I know I’m just gonna get sick again. It makes everything feel redundant. I’m always gonna be neck-deep in medical bills. I know getting better is always the point but like, why? Why should I care?” 

The room was quiet from the seriousness. Mickey didn’t want to think anything of it, but something about what Ian said had resonated with him. 

“Thank you for your honesty, Ian,” Rose said, “I think that’s a difficult thing for a lot of us here. We all have our problems and sometimes we wonder if it’s worth the energy to fix them. I think the point to me would be to have as much quality of life as possible, to have as many happy, healthy moments as possible. It might always come back to the bipolar, for you, Ian, or psychosis, or borderline, or anything else, but at least you’ll have those moments. That’s what matters, I think.” 

Ian nodded slowly, “Yeah, yeah I guess so,” he agreed, but he didn’t look so sure. 

“Could I add something?” Taylor piped up quietly. 

Rose looked at Ian for his answer.

“Of course, yeah,” Ian nodded, coming out of his head.

Taylor cleared her throat and sat up straight. “I guess, um, personally, getting better is redundant for me because it’s boring. Whenever things aren’t really intense, in a good or bad way, everything feels really plain and empty. Like every feeling I have is watered down. And I feel like there’s only so long I can live with that.” 

Rose nodded sympathetically and thought for a long moment. “That’s really common with chronically mentally ill people,” she began finally, “You’re used to all this chaos, so it's hard to find meaning when the chaos isn’t there. Instead, you have to work to find fulfillment, and it’s a long task. But I want you all to know,” She said genuinely, and Mickey could tell for the first time that she really was a therapist, “It’s not impossible. You don’t need to make things dangerous, or ruin good things, because eventually it won’t feel empty anymore. You can find something to make life fulfilling while pursuing a healthy lifestyle. But it  _ is  _ hard.”

The rest of the group spoke about their equally important experiences for the rest of the session, but Mickey was distracted, pondering on what Ian and Taylor said. He didn’t think anybody could ever feel the same as him. He thought something must be disastrously wrong with him for helping himself to not be the most appealing thing. 

At the end of the session, they did something called ‘mindfulness’, which Mickey called (in his head) ‘close your eyes in a room with half its lights shut off and breathe too fuckin’ much for five minutes straight’. 

It was lunch; hot grilled cheese and tomato soup with a side of carrots. Mickey sat in the same place he sat at breakfast, but this time he felt himself scanning the room for Ian. Something, deep down, so deep Mickey didn’t even know it himself, was telling him he wanted to sit with Ian. He wanted to hear whatever he talked about with Taylor. He wanted to be part of their little psych ward ‘clique’. 

Redheads are rare, and so, Ian’s bright orange hair was easy to spot among the others. Mickey blew on his soup and followed Ian with his eyes, watching him sit down at a table with, expectedly, Taylor and the rest. Mickey felt a vague sense of disappointment, knowing he’d stick out at a table like that. Until–

Ian looked back, they made eye contact. Mickey instantly looked away, directly into his soup, every muscle in his body tensing. His mind was screaming  _ red alert, act casual. _

He dipped his grilled cheese in the soup and took a bite, despite the sudden nervosity making him lose his appetite. 

“Hey,” Spoke a voice Mickey recognized.

He turned to see Ian, his finger out, ready to tap Mickey’s shoulder, and then slinking back to his side when he realized that wouldn’t go over well. 

“Wanna sit with us?” Ian asked, and bit his lip in thought, his green eyes wandering around the room, “Sucks here, I know, but it goes by faster if you have people to talk to.” 

Mickey looked past Ian to the table, where everybody was not-so-casually turned and watching him and Ian converse, “No thanks,” Mickey said flatly, and turned back to his soup, pretending not to care. 

Ian took a stressed, deep breath out. “C’mon, they don’t care that–”

Mickey turned around on his seat, “They don’t care that  _ what _ , Gallagher?”  _ That I’m crazy? That I’m here on a court order? That I’m a rude bastard?  _

“That you’re southside. Look, just for lunch today, and if you don’t like us, you can sit  _ alone _ at dinner,” Ian negotiated. 

“Fuckin’... fine,” Mickey grumbled and picked up his tray, following Ian to the table. 

They all greeted him with ‘hey’, ‘hey Mickey’, ‘oh hey’, as he sat down.

Ian sat next to Taylor, opposite to Mickey. Taylor plopped her spoon back into her soup. “What’s got you stuck in here, Mickey?” She asked. Ian looked sideways at her, knowing that she didn’t know he was Mickey fucking Milkovich, which meant the reason he was here was clear, and at the same time, wasn’t something he’d talk about.

“None a your business,” Mickey slurped some soup off of his spoon. 

“Okay, Mr. Cagey,” she joked. 

Mickey glared up from his soup. Ian elbowed Taylor and gave her a look that said ‘let the guy live’. She rolled her eyes. 

“So, Ian–” Bryan began, from the other side of the table, “What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get out?” 

“Ah,” Ian smiled widely, looking up at the ceiling as if he were looking at the heavens, “Go to Starbucks. Get some fruity fuckin’ drink.” 

The table laughed, even Mickey got a small half-smile out of that, even if it was just because Ian was shamelessly expressing his love for overly sweet coffee. 

And they went on, talking and bickering about the best way to take your coffee. Mickey didn’t say much, and he sat there looking like he was brooding, but a part of him, a part bigger than he’d like to admit, was content with it, content with listening to Ian’s enthusiasm about Starbucks. 


	4. Abandonment Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey goes to one-on-one therapy and finally meets his roommate.

“Mickey, this would go a lot faster if you’d talk to me,” said an eggshell-skinned woman with wavy, dyed-red hair, a plump body, wearing a pink, floral sundress with pink flats to match. Her name was Abigail – or Abby for short.

Mickey raised an eyebrow at her stubbornly. He was ten minutes into his first session, and he’d proclaimed he didn’t want to talk. Abby was right, though. The minutes passed like snails crossing.

Abby’s office was very… ‘zen’. There was a pink lava lamp, quiet ambient music playing, carpet flooring with more carpets covering it, a miniature fountain on her desk, as well as all sorts of fidget toys. The bright fluorescent light was covered with a thin, translucent pink fabric, making all the light in the room a baby pink. Behind Abby’s desk, and Abby herself, was a large window with a view of the park nearby. 

“I might as well go over the intake questionnaire, which you need to do before you can get a roommate, if you don’t want to talk about anything else first,” She lifted a large pile of papers and began flipping through them, until she came to what she was looking for. She set it in front of her on her desk and began filling it out. For once, Mickey focused on what she was doing: writing his name, date of birth, reason for being there, possible diagnoses. She flipped the page. “Can you answer these questions for me, at least?” 

“Depends on the question,” Mickey said smartly. 

“Have you ever been a victim of any form of sexual abuse?” 

“What?” Mickey said in shock. He hadn’t expected that sort of question. Though, he thought of Mandy. How, had he been born with different genitals, he would have probably been victim to the same thing as her. “No,” he said, more serious, “Not me.” 

“Your sister, Mandy, right?” Abby looked concerned. 

Mickey shifted uncomfortably in the blue, cushioned chair. “Yes.” 

“I’m sorry,” She said sincerely. 

“Wasn’t me to be sorry to.” 

Mickey didn’t know about morals – morals in general society, anyway. Right from wrong was very different in his world. But he knew what happened to Mandy was very, very wrong, and he wished the whole world would apologize to her. 

She nodded sympathetically and continued, “What is your sexual orientation?” 

“Straight…?” Mickey said immediately, wondering why she was asking that. 

“Do you want to hurt yourself or others?” 

Mickey thought about that one. Yes, there were a  _ ton _ of people he wanted to knock the fuck out. And yes, he considered jumping off a bridge from time to time. “I wanna, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to.” 

“That’s true, yes. Do you  _ have a plan _ to hurt yourself or others? Could you, in good faith, tell me you are not a risk to yourself or others?” 

Mickey snorted, finding the question funny. “Don’t you think, if I really had a plan, I’d just fuckin’ lie to you and get on with it?” 

Abby nodded and smiled, holding back a laugh. “I do. I don’t know why they make us ask half this stuff, but I guess, maybe some people  _ would _ admit right here that they’re gonna go hurt somebody. Can you answer anyway, please?” 

Mickey suddenly felt more comfortable, with Abby appreciating his sarcastic remark. “No, I don’t have a plan to hurt myself or others.” 

“Thank you,” She wrote that down. “Do you enjoy being social? Do you understand social cues?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Mickey looked to the side in confusion, “I think so, I mean, as much as anybody?” 

“Do you ever experience moments where you feel like you’ve lost time, like you find yourself somewhere without knowing how you got there, people tell you you’ve said or done things you don’t remember? Do you–”

“What the fuck? That happens?” Mickey asked, unnerved but curious. 

“Yeah,” Abby said, sounding glad that somebody was taking an interest, and set her pen down, “It’s called dissociation. It can take many forms, like feeling like you’re watching your life go along as a movie, feeling like you’re out of your body. Not recognizing yourself in the mirror in a literal sense, feeling like you’re not real, or the world isn’t real.” 

Mickey’s face cringed, “That sounds fucking terrifying.” 

“It can be,” Abby explained, “Lots of patients are scared or unsettled by their dissociation. A lot of them are unbothered too, though, to them it’s the same feeling as zoning out, but in a much deeper way.” 

“Right…” 

“Anyway,” Abby picked up her pen again, “Do you ever have moments where you feel you are out of control of your actions?” 

Not until his dad was thrown out a window. “I mean–” 

“I know about the incident,” Abby said, “I mean other than moments like those, when you are completely aware of reality and the situation, do you ever feel like you are doing something you have no control over?” 

Besides the paranormal shit, Mickey was pretty much always in control of his actions. A lot of the time they were led by rage, yeah, but he still consciously chose to do whatever it is he was doing. If he was beating a dude to a pulp, he was meaning to. “No.” 

“Okay,” she said in finality, closing the packet of papers, “That’s it for the intake. There were more questions, but your criminal psychologist took care of most of those,” she cleared her throat, “Mickey, I need to tell you…” 

Mickey looked up at her with wide eyes. 

“Tomorrow, we will be beginning you on anti-psychotics.” 

“Oh, fuck no!” Mickey said, without thinking. Not only was he in a psych ward for something he didn’t have, now he was going to be medicated for it, too. Of course, after saying that, he knew that Abby would be concerned that he was too delusional to admit there was something wrong. 

“I know medication is scary for a lot of people–” 

“I’m not scared,” Mickey corrected quickly. 

“Right, I know lots of people  _ don’t like it _ ,” Abby changed her wording, “But I promise we only give it when it’s needed. It won’t be as bad as you think.” 

Mickey figured there was no way of getting out of it, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have a trick up his sleeve. The thing Abby and the nurses didn’t know was that Mickey had a long history with drugs, and had a way of pretending to take drugs, just to take them out of his mouth and sell them later. He knew how to hide them without ingesting them. “Whatever you gotta do, lady.” 

“Thank you, Mickey,” she seemed relieved. 

“There’s half an hour left in your session still,” she said, turning her head to the clock on the wall. “You still want to sit here in silence?”

“Yep.”

And so he sat there, twiddling his thumbs, occasionally clearing his throat, watching the pink lava lamp, for thirty whole minutes. 

“Go find a nurse,” Abby said as Mickey was on his way out, “They’ll show you to your room and you can meet your roommate there. But you might already know him.”

Mickey awkwardly searched around for a nurse who didn’t look busy. Finally, he found one who seemed to be folding towels outside of the bathroom. She looked young, to be a nurse, probably new. She had her straight brown hair put into a bun that was falling apart and wore baby pink scrubs.

“Can you show me to my room?” He asked without greeting her. She looked up from her newly folded towel, stunned.

She cleared her throat, “Uh, yeah, sure,” she picked up a clipboard that was next to the pile of towels, “What’s your name?”

“Mickey Milkovich.”

She searched a couple pages on her clipboard, “Mikhailo?”

“Yeah,” Mickey grumbled.

“Room 27!” She pointed to his name on the paper. “I’ll show you there now.” 

The nurse guided Mickey past the cafeteria, and what looked like a common room, down a hall named “C Wing” with multiple numbered doors. 

Mickey looked at the doors as they walked past them, some of them with patients reading, writing, talking to each other, sleeping. 25, 26… 27. 

The door was closed, but the nurse opened it to reveal a room with two single beds, separated by a retracted curtain. There was beige carpet, off-white walls, a small opened bathroom. One side of the room was bare, with the bed made neatly, a wooden desk with nothing on it, and a yoga ball to use as a seat. The other side was much more cluttered, with books and papers lying on the desk, posters and drawings and slogans tacked to the wall, a blanket on the floor, and… Ian Gallagher lying comfortably in bed, reading a magazine. He was wearing the same outfit as earlier, except he’d taken his sweater off, revealing a gray tank top. He was far too comfortable in his dark skinny jeans, too – he must have been wearing something that wasn’t denim. He moved the magazine just enough to look over it. “Mickey! Hey!” He smiled widely. 

“Mickey’s your new roommate, Ian,” the nurse said. “You two have met?” 

“Yeah, we’re in group together,” he answered, “And we’re both southside. Didn’t really talk until now though.” 

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Hey, Ian,” he said, like he had to. Deep down, though, he was happy that Ian was his roommate, because he wondered if he’d be able to deal with anybody else in the godforsaken place. In a week from then, though, he would have to face getting a roommate who was a complete stranger. He shivered at the thought. 

“Thanks, Jas,” Ian smiled at the nurse, and she looked between the two, and was off. 

“Jas, huh? Short for Jasmine?” Mickey commented, noticing the nickname. 

“She’s new, be nice,” Ian said. 

“I am being perfectly fuckin’ nice, Gallagher,” Mickey said as he looked the room over again, realizing he’d be spending every day in it for a year. He took a deep sigh and sat on his bed. 

Ian went back to his magazine for only a second, before putting it down entirely and looking at Mickey. “Can you tell  _ me _ why you’re in here?” He asked. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. 

“Fuck no.” Mickey wasn’t budging on that stance. 

“Fine,” Ian said, only partially defeated, “But you’re gonna have to talk, in group, to your therapist, or they’re never gonna let you out of here.” 

Mickey knew Ian meant well by the advice, but being told what to do by some buff redhead wasn’t going over well. “I don’t need your advice, dude,” he said, starting to chew on the chin around his thumbnail. 

Ian hesitated saying more, but couldn’t help himself. “Maybe not, I’m just saying, I’ve been in here a couple times now, and there’s guys I’ve seen add years to their time here because their pride won’t let ‘em talk. I figured I’d say something, because you’re southside, and I don’t wanna see you ruin your life over that shit–”

“It’s  _ none _ of your  _ fucking _ business,” Mickey said sternly. It really was pride that held him back. He knew if he admitted to a group of people that he believed he had superpowers, he’d be humiliated. “I doubt you’d be willing to share your whole fuckin’ story with a bunch of strangers, too.” 

Ian snorted. Mickey realized right away that he was wrong. “You wanna know why I’m in here?” 

“No–” Mickey said, but really, he was somewhat curious. 

“I stopped taking my meds, you know, as you do,” he started, as if reciting a dramatic monologue, “And I had a manic episode in which I got high, slept with four guys one after the other in an hour, went to go to another bar to fuck more guys, and on the way there, got paranoid that these guys I’d  _ just _ slept with had boyfriends who were going to murder me. And I crashed the car into a tree, and while I was bleeding profusely, still managed to get out and yell to anyone who could hear me that I was being chased.” 

Mickey was looking at Ian for the first time since he’d sat down. Ian’s face was slightly blushed in response to reciting his whole story. Mickey then noticed how model-like Ian looked, with his perfect square jaw and big arms. He mentally shook himself out of it, wondering why he was thinking about Ian’s fucking  _ jawline _ when Ian had just recited an… admittedly crazy story. Mickey’s eyes were stuck open in shock. He didn’t really know what to say, how to take Ian’s story in, so he deflected it entirely. “Okay, so, you’re a crazy fag, but ain’t me,” He said tonelessly, as he laid on his back with his arms crossed. 

The room was silent for a moment, until Ian was audibly stifling a laugh. 

“What the fuck is funny?” Mickey asked accusingly. 

Ian shook his head and chuckled. “I could report you for hate speech, you know, get you another six months in here easy.” 

Mickey’s mouth clicked open and he turned to look at Ian. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Ian admitted, “I’m not a snitch.” 

Mickey sighed, far more relieved than he’d like to admit. Snitching in juvie, or prison, was a death sentence. Snitching in a psych ward would… work. 

“I saw how you reacted when Jared touched your shoulder, Mickey, and–” Ian was approaching it warmly, which triggered something inside of Mickey that felt… nice? And because it felt nice, it felt awful. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey said. 

“Maybe you’re not as crazy as they think, but there is something up with you. And if I were you, I’d take advantage of the treatment they’re giving. It’ll make you feel better.” 

“Are you done?” Mickey asked, but it was almost a plea for Ian to be quiet. 

Ian went quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” He said finally, “I’m gonna go watch TV in the common room, I’m meeting Taylor there,” he got up, and made his way to the door. He froze before leaving. “Feel free to join us.” 

There was a part of Mickey that considered watching TV with Ian and Taylor, but he decided against it, feeling like watching TV in a psych ward wasn’t his thing. He knew he’d be bored, though, alone in his room. He thought that maybe… he’d try to use his power. He looked at Ian’s desk for something light, and put his focus onto a book. He felt ridiculous, but he squinted at the book, trying to will it to move. He focused harder and harder, his teeth clenched, shaking, until his vision went blurry and his head started to hurt. At the failure, he angrily punched his bed with one hand, muttering ‘fuck’. Just then, he witnessed every object on Ian’s desk raise two inches and then fall back exactly into place. 

“Really?” He said to himself, to whatever it was inside him doing these things, deciding to do it out of emotion instead of when he was trying. 

Suddenly, he was hit with a wave of fatigue, drowsiness, and there was a coldness through his entire body, telling him to sleep. 

He wrapped the blanket around himself, which was, notably, much warmer and softer than the jail blanket, and the pillow and mattress were much fluffier. As soon as he hit the pillow, he didn’t drift off– it was as if he was knocked out cold. 

_ Mickey woke up in what felt like a warm bath. Except, his clothes were still on, sticking to his body, and the air smelt of honey. He opened his eyes slowly, to the sight of an endless sunset sky, full of shades of orange and red and pink and light purple. He recognized it immediately as the ‘other realm’–the realm that was more than earth, the realm that he couldn’t understand. He was alone, and it was quiet, besides the occasional drip. He gently moved his hands around in the water. He felt at peace, at home. He knew in his heart that he wasn’t there to stay, though. He was there for a greater purpose.  _

_ He stood, the warm water now only reaching his knees. “Hello?” He shouted, and there was no response, not even an echo. He trudged along, secretly admiring the colours.  _

_ And then, there was a woman’s voice behind him. “Mickey?”  _

_ He turned to see a black-haired woman, slightly shorter than him. She had wonderful blue eyes, tiny, pale freckles on her nose, full pink lips. She wore a flowy, black dress that floated in the water around her thighs. _

_ Immediately, Mickey’s throat tightened. There was something about this woman that hit somewhere very, very deep inside his mind. Something about her hair, her eyes.  _

_ “Mickey, you don’t need to be afraid–” She held her hand out to reach for him, to comfort him.  _

_ He jolted back, “Who the fuck are you?!”  _

_ Tears were stubbornly appearing in his eyes, and he had no idea why he was having such a response to her.  _

_ “Your power, Mickey. I know it scares you.” _

_ Mickey didn’t care about that. He cared about whoever this woman was in front of him.  _

_ “It’s not something you need to be afraid of…” She spoke more, but her voice trailed off as Mickey was trying to pull the memory out of the depths of his mind. He recognized her voice, too– it was so strangely calming to him, it was so– _

_ He figured it out. He looked at her, and saw her clearly for the first time. “Mom?” He said as quiet as a whisper, his voice breaking.  _

_ She stopped in the middle of what she was saying, and smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Mickey, I’m so sorry. I came here to tell you not to be afraid. That you’re not crazy. That you have control, if you search for it. I didn’t think you’d recognize me. You’re more powerful than I thought.”  _

_ He shook his head slowly in complete disbelief. “Why the fuck did you leave, mom? Why the fuck did you leave us with him?”  _

_ She didn’t say anything. Tears were streaming down her face.  _

_ He felt awful, seeing her like that, but he felt more awful remembering all the years she could have saved them, but didn’t. “Dad raped Mandy, mom. For four years. He beat me all fucking the time, too. And you left us there. You fucking left us there!”  _

_ She gulped. “I can’t explain to you how sorry I am. I would have given anything to save you, but I couldn’t. You’ll see. I couldn’t.”  _

_ “Nothing could ever explain to me why you’d leave your two fucking kids behind with him.” He said bitterly, through his teeth.  _

_ “Come see me.” Was all she said. _

_ “What? How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”  _

_ “You’ll know.”  _

Mickey gasped for air. He was back in his room, staring at the off-white ceiling. His heart was thumping out of his chest, and he felt like he was drowning in his own sweat. Tears had wet his eyelashes. The building was a lot more quiet than when he’d gone to sleep, though. He figured it was night time. He remembered every detail of the dream he’d just had, and it felt just as real as the room he was laying in right now. He’d seen his mom, for the first time since he was four years old. Every feeling he could possibly feel was erupting from him. He wanted to die in the same way that he felt like there was finally some hope. 

“Nightmare?” Ian said from the other side of the room, through the curtain. 

Mickey jumped slightly, startled. “Not really.” 

“Oh, well, you had a nosebleed,” He told Mickey, “I tried to wake you up, but you were really out, so I cleaned it up for you. In case you were wondering why there’s blood on your pillow. I was glad you didn’t wake up, ‘cause you probably would’ve bit my fuckin’ hand off. Anyway– you’re welcome,” He said, and Mickey heard him turn around in his bed, “Goodnight.” 

And just then, among all the feelings inside of Mickey, there was a smidgen of warmth in his chest from the idea that Ian cared enough to clean blood off of his nose. And maybe it was because of Mickey’s misery in the moment, but he decided that for the night, he’d let himself feel it and feel bad about it in the morning.


	5. Flooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey deals with his borderline, his new powers and his new attachment to Ian. Ian has something revealed to him in very dramatic fashion.

Mickey didn’t fall back asleep right away. Instead, he spent quite a bit of the night pondering Ian’s advice, wondering about what his dream-mom had said. If he was gonna stay there a year, with people he’d probably never see again, why not take some court-ordered therapy? Plus, he’d kinda have to, if he ever wanted to be considered sane. But maybe he wasn’t even going to stay there a year. Maybe he’d break out, find his mom, whatever that meant. He felt, for some reason, like that was what he was supposed to do. How was he supposed to escape, though? If he couldn’t control his powers, it would be the same as for anyone else, impossible. 

In a last attempt, he brought his focus to the ceiling. He focused, until there was buzzing, and for once, there was no headache or nose bleed. There was a crack. A crack loud enough to make Mickey jump and tighten his fists, but still only enough to make Ian shift in his bed without waking. There was a long, thin, ragged line along the ceiling right above Mickey, that reached wall to wall. It was nothing that was going to make the insulation fall out, not for decades, until the weight made it collapse further, but it was something. 

Mickey grinned slightly, having impressed himself, and then turned over, trying to get back to sleep. 

The next day, Mickey sat by himself, in a way to sort of spite Ian for noticing his loneliness. As if to say ‘fuck you, I’m a fucking loner, I don’t give a fuck about anybody’. He regretted it, though. He couldn’t stop looking over to their table, seeing Ian and Taylor laughing together. 

At group, he had to take a pause before deciding where to sit. He’d planned to sit where he did before, but a feeling inside him was yelling at him to sit next to Ian. He felt like he  _ needed _ to, like sitting next to Ian would make him safe. And so, he did. 

Ian looked confused for a moment before grinning at Mickey as a welcome. 

“Why don’t you start for us, Taylor?” Rose asked, turning to Taylor who was beside her. 

“Oh, sure, um,” Taylor picked at the skin on her hands and thought for a moment, “I guess I’m struggling with attachment right now. It’s been a while since I’ve been attached to someone,” She looked at Ian, “But now I am, and it’s great, but it’s also completely awful. No offense,” she said to him quietly. “DBT is helping, but it’s a process, you know? My feelings don’t just go away, and I have too many. I always feel too much, feel out of control. Feel like the smallest things are the end of the world. And I hate that it makes so many people feel guilty. Like it’s not their fault I feel so much, but I still do. I still ask for too much.” 

Mickey felt sick at how much he related to plenty of what she was saying. He always felt too much. His powers were clearly out of control, but so was his rage. So was what he felt when Mandy left.

Ian leaned in to Taylor. “It’s okay, Tay, you know I’m not bothered about it,” he whispered just loud enough for Mickey to hear, trying to reassure her. She nodded and thanked him, but it wasn’t much help. 

“Taylor,” Rose began in a calm, therapeutic voice, speaking not only to Taylor but to the entire group, “All of us here have needs that others and sometimes ourselves deem as ‘too much’. All of us feel like a burden from time to time, but that doesn’t mean we are. Of course, there are limits that should be put in place to keep  _ both  _ ourselves and those around us healthy, like avoiding codependency, or making sure to recognize other people’s feelings when you’re in a calmer state. But there is no shame in being more of an attached type of person, or having anxiety about abandonment. You need to search for people who can work with you on those issues to make the relationship beneficial for everybody.” 

Mickey, subconsciously, felt a bit better after that. The group nodded along with what Rose said, and they moved onto Ian. 

“Uh…” Ian scratched his face, staring at the ground, thinking about something to say. “I guess I’m really scared of how it’s gonna go with my job. My boss didn’t wanna hire me in the first place because of my bipolar, I convinced her, but now that I’ve been put back in the psych ward, I don’t think I’ll have any chance. Being an EMT, as most of you know, was really… fucking important to me. I could help people, every day. And now I probably won’t be able to get a job I’d like.” 

The room was quiet, everybody was looking at their feet, except Rose and Mickey, who were watching Ian. It was a topic that hit everybody in the room. Even Mickey. Mickey never wanted a ‘normal job’ in the first place, not on the surface, but now knowing he could probably never have one… that gave him such a sinking feeling. 

“The ableism that many professions have is terrifying, Ian,” Rose said finally, discouraged, which was something rare for her. She tried her best with any situation, Mickey had noticed, but she couldn’t help this one. “I wish I could fix it myself. They think that because of your illness, you won’t be able to function in the job properly, but especially when you’ve been treated, that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s not your fault you have this illness and it’s disgusting that you have to pay for it even further, through every step in life.” 

“Yeah,” Ian chuckled despondently, “It sucks.” 

“I guess, with what energy you have after a work day, you could try to find a hobby that brings you that kind of passion,” Rose tried to sound hopeful, liven up the room, “Painting, writing, volunteering, spending time with family. Even if you can only get paid for things that might feel mundane to you, you can make other parts of your life more lively.” 

Ian nodded thoughtfully. Rose was right, everybody knew that, but everybody also knew that still, not being able to acquire the profession you dream of sucks absolute ass. 

“Anything else, Ian?” Rose asked.

Ian shook his head, and quickly all eyes were on Mickey. 

“Did you want to say anything today, Mickey?” 

Mickey had talked himself out of it all day. He knew Ian’s advice from the previous night was sound, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his pride. That meant what he was about to do next was on impulse, as if something pushed him at the last moment. 

“I guess,” he said, acting miserable, and cleared his throat. He looked beside him at Ian, who’s mouth had fallen slightly open in a sort of surprised, glad half-smile. “I don’t know, I– I guess I have fuckin’... anger issues.” 

“Right,” Rose nodded, “Do you want to talk about that?” 

Mickey was already full of anxiety just from admitting that. Deep in his mind, there was something tugging on him to talk further, but he ignored it. “Nope.” 

Rose’s face couldn’t hide her sudden confusion from Mickey shutting it down. “Oh. Okay, did you want to talk about anything else?” 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t like being touched. At all.” 

“Okay, that’s okay. No judgement here,” Rose tried being more accommodating, to make him more comfortable, but it made him more embarrassed “Did you want to talk about that?” 

“Uh…” he considered it for a second. “Nope.” 

“Was there anything else?” Rose was trying to be her usual, calm self, but she seemed stressed. 

“Nope.” 

“Alright, thank you for speaking, Mickey,” she said genuinely, “Nadine?” 

Nadine, who was on the other side of Mickey, began. “I worry I’ll never feel fully like a woman. I can get as many surgeries as I need…” 

Mickey was listening intently, still trying to figure out what Nadine meant, when Ian whispered to him. “Good job for talking, Mick.” 

_ Mick? _ Mickey thought.  _ We on a nickname basis now? _

“Shut the fuck up, freckles,” Mickey whispered back, feeling the heat rising on his cheeks a bit from Ian referring to Mickey speaking in front of the group. He wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, and moreover, he didn’t want a big deal made out of it. Ian chuckled amusedly at Mickey’s aggressiveness.

_ Rosy cheeks bring out the blue,  _ Mickey heard Ian’s voice say, but Ian’s mouth wasn’t moving, and nobody else seemed to have heard it. 

“What?” Mickey whispered again to Ian. 

Ian furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “I didn’t say anything.” 

Mickey froze and blinked, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. He swore – it sounded  _ exactly _ like Ian. He wondered if maybe he was going crazy, hearing voices. He looked past Ian to Taylor, to make sure he was really the only one who heard it. 

_ Who the hell is this guy? Why does Ian know him? I’m gonna be fucking replaced.  _ Mickey heard in Taylor’s voice, but again, her mouth wasn’t moving. 

He was completely convinced, in that moment, that he was experiencing hallucinations of voices. 

“... and I don’t know. I guess I’m just sad I’ll never be able to birth a baby,” Nadine finished. 




“Today, I want to talk to you about borderline personality disorder, Mickey,” Abby said gently to Mickey, “Have you heard of it?” 

There were two instances where Mickey had heard that name: in court, and, “Yeah, that fuckin’ goth girl with the weird fuckin’ scars–” 

“I can’t speak to you about the disorders of other patients,” Abby said apologetically. 

“Right,” Mickey said, immediately quitting at what he was saying, “Well, that.” 

“And you were suspected to have it by your criminal psychologist, weren’t you?” She asked for confirmation. 

Mickey breathed in, and then out, to make a point, “Yeah. I don’t know what the fuck it is, though.” 

“Well,” Abby began explaining, “It’s a personality disorder primarily characterized by emotional instability, relationship instability, impulsivity, and changing sense of self.” 

Three out of four of those, at least, hit Mickey pretty well. 

Abby flipped some pages on her clipboard, “I’m going to ask you some questions today regarding the disorder, okay?” 

“Whatever,” Mickey sat back, got ‘comfortable’, and watched the pink lava lamp again. 

Abby put the tip of her pen on the page, searching for the first question. “Can you tell me about your history with relationships, attachment?” 

Mickey snorted, “I’ve never been in a relationship.” 

“Can be any kind of relationship,” she corrected herself, “Friends, family.” 

“Oh, God, awful then. I fuckin’ hate everybody,” Mickey said without thinking, like it was something he knew as well as walking, until he remembered Mandy. His stomach twisted. “Well, except Mandy,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands. 

“What was your connection with Mandy like?” 

“Well, she was the only fuckin’ person I cared about, so,” He said, as if it explained itself. 

“Could you explain to me further how that changed your relationship with her? What was different?” 

“I don’t know!” Mickey was getting impatient. Anxiety and anger was growing in his chest. “Like, most people, I don’t give ‘em anything. They cross me, I hit them, I cut them out. But… I could never fuckin’ do that to Mandy. She’s the only person I gave a shit enough about to spend time with. I worried she’d hate me sometimes.” 

“Hate you? For what?” Abby inquired. 

“Anything.  _ Everything _ , I don’t fucking know, okay?” He swallowed the lump in his throat. 

Abby paused for a second, unsure where to go next. “You said you know of a patient here with BPD, did you ever speak to them about their experience with the disorder?” 

Mickey breathed in relief that they weren’t talking about Mandy anymore, “No.” 

“I was just going to explain to you that borderlines often explain they experience something called a ‘Favorite Person’. This is a person that, essentially, can be the only person the borderline truly cares about. It’s somebody who the borderline is very attached to and will often trigger the borderline's symptoms of fear of abandonment, mood swings, anger, impulsivity. The borderline will experience heightened symptoms when attached to a Favorite Person. Does that sound like you at all?” 

It clicked right away with how Mickey felt. He hated it, but it was a relief that there was an explanation. “Yeah. I guess.” 

The rest of the session Abby spent questioning Mickey about any drug or alcohol abuse, impulsivity, anger, feelings. Mickey was semi-honest, especially about the feelings. At the end of the session, Abby told Mickey she would need to speak with another psychiatrist before diagnosing him, but that in her opinion, it seems likely. 

Finally, it was dinner time, and Mickey was starving. They were serving hot chili and salad. Mickey only had the chili.

After sitting alone at breakfast and dinner, he finally decided to suck it up and sit with Ian and group. He sat across from Ian and Taylor and dug in right away. 

“Just chili?” Ian commented, making fun of Mickey. His fork crunched on some lettuce and tomato. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey said, muffled through the food. 

_ Now I can’t talk to Ian. Great. I’m definitely gonna be replaced.  _ Mickey heard Taylor. 

He realized that he wasn’t really hearing it from Taylor, like he would if she were speaking aloud. He heard it from the back of his mind. It wasn’t like the normal ‘narration’ in his mind, it was like something else altogether, something he didn’t feel like he could form himself.

Mickey stuck another spoon of chili in his mouth. 

_ Chili on his top lip.  _ Mickey heard Ian now. 

“Huh?” Mickey said, before realizing Ian probably hadn’t said that aloud. 

Ian looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, suspicious. “I didn’t say anything… you hearing things?” 

Mickey wiped his top lip with his thumb, to reveal he actually did have chili on it. He stared at the chili. “... I don’t know,” he didn’t mean to say that aloud, but he was so stunned that he lost what little filter he had.

_ I wish he’d talk to me more. He needs to talk. He’s so distant. Is there any possibility with Mickey? I mean, look at him. He can’t be completely straight, right?–  _

Mickey didn’t want to bring the thought to the front of his mind, but he couldn’t help it anymore. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he could hear other people’s thoughts. He could read their minds. And that was fucking weird. 

_ And if that’s what it is,  _ Mickey thought,  _ if I can actually fucking read minds, which I probably can’t, because mindreading isn’t a thing people can ACTUALLY fucking do, then… _

_ Is Ian going fucking gay for me?  _

And really, everything Mickey had ever learnt told him to be disgusted by that possibility. He should be revolted, never talk to Ian again, ask to change roommates. But he wasn’t. He wanted to stay there, across from Ian, stay in Ian’s room, and maybe, sometime in the far, far, future, talk to Ian about his problems– 

He shook it off. Ian was probably just thinking in hypotheticals, anyway. And if he wasn’t, Mickey decided would ignore it.

After dinner, Mickey went to his room alone, as Ian was going to watch TV with Taylor like regular. 

Mickey was bored. He glanced at Ian’s desk, and hesitated there for a moment, thinking he probably shouldn’t go through Ian’s stuff, but that Ian might have something Mickey could do. A book that would somehow interest him. 

The first thing he came across was a small pile of Ian’s journals. Mickey’s fingers pressed to the first journal lightly, as he considered opening it and reading all of Ian’s deepest thoughts. He figured that was a dick move, though, and continued digging through Ian’s junky desk until he found a tennis ball. The most entertaining thing he could find was a  _ tennis ball. _

He stepped a couple feet away from the large back wall of the room, and decided to play catch with himself. The ball made a large thunking sound that he hoped wouldn’t make the nurses check on him more than their hourly rounds. 

Instead of a nurse, after a couple of moments, Ian came in, sounding panicked, “Mickey.” 

“What?” Mickey bounced the ball off the wall again. 

“Mickey, I need to tell you something, you need to sit down,” Ian insisted, sounding serious and concerned. 

Mickey let the ball fall to the floor. He turned to Ian, and his heart sped up as he saw Ian’s eyes were wide with worry. “I’m not fucking sitting down, tell me what it is.” 

“We’re not supposed to watch the news, right? But the owners are old, rich, assholes who don’t know how to order TV channels without having the news,” Ian explained very quickly, without taking a breath, “And the nurses weren’t watching, and one of the guys there is always worried about there being an attack and so he checked the news, and–” 

Ian paused, like he didn’t want to say it. 

“And  _ WHAT _ , Gallagher!?” Mickey nearly shouted, he got a feeling he knew what Ian was about to say.

“Your… story was there. Everything. They explained everything before the nurses caught on and turned it off,” Ian breathed, finally, but the worry didn’t wash off his face. 

“What?” Mickey said in a small voice, but he didn’t feel small at all. The wave of humiliation and rage was big enough to flood an entire city, an entire continent. 

“I’m sorry–” 

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Mickey shouted at nothing in particular, he was so full of anger he didn’t care anymore, he needed to get it out. “I GET ARRESTED FOR KILLING MY DAD, WHO WAS A PIECE OF SHIT–” 

“Mickey–” Ian tried getting Mickey’s attention, but Mickey wouldn’t waver from his venting. 

“AND IMMEDIATELY I’M DEEMED AS FUCKING  _ CRAZY _ –” 

“ _ Mickey!”  _ Ian insisted. 

“AND I HAD TO PRETEND I WAS CRAZY TOO, SO I’D GET IN HERE INSTEAD OF 25 FUCKING YEARS IN PRISON–”

“MICKEY!” 

“AND NOW  _ EVERYONE– _ ” 

“ _ MICKEY _ !” Ian shouted and, at last, shook Mickey’s shoulders. 

The red of the anger faded away to reveal to Mickey that the entire room was floating two feet off of the floor, the bed, the desks, and Ian and himself. 

With that, everything landed back on the ground with a thump. Ian and Mickey fell. 

The door opened. Jasmine was standing there with a ghostly look on her face. “Is everything–” she froze as she saw Mickey and Ian were both looking pained and on the floor, “What happened!?” 

Ian turned to Jasmine with his mouth gaping open in shock, before he closed it and turned his face into a false, polite smile. “Oh, I’m fine, I just fell,” he played off. 

Jasmine looked at Mickey. 

“Oh,” Ian chuckled, still acting, “He was gonna help me up,  _ nice guy _ , but he fell too.” 

She looked from Ian to Mickey, and then Mickey to Ian, over and over. “Right… that’s all?” 

There was a ding. Jasmine dug in her pants pocket and took out a pager. 

“That’s all,” Ian stood up, and brushed himself off, before holding his hand out for Mickey. Mickey took it reluctantly. He usually wouldn’t have, but he wanted to play the friends act for Jasmine. 

Jasmine looked at Mickey, “I just got a message that the director needs to see you right away tomorrow morning.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows and continued fixing his shirt. “Am I in trouble?” 

Jasmine froze. Mickey realized she might have been there for the TV incident. “No. No, I don’t think it’s that.” She looked around the room one last time, awkwardly waved and left. 

Mickey didn’t look at Ian. He wanted to pretend that didn’t happen. That the last twenty minutes hadn’t happened. 

“Mickey,” Ian said gently. 

“What?” Mickey snapped. 

“You have powers.” 


End file.
